


Uain Dé

by yakman



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Lamb!Diarmuid, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prequel, Rating May Change, Slice of Life, unedited and it shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakman/pseuds/yakman
Summary: A slice of monastic life.(Everything is the same but Diarmuid's got lamb ears and a tail and also horns.)
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	Uain Dé

**Author's Note:**

> a little over a month ago, i woke up at 4am with the thought, "pilgrimage au where everything's the same, but diarmuid's got lamb ears and a tail" and then our discord went buck wild with it and then i finally decided to write something.
> 
> the plan is for this, at some point, to be a series of episodic one-shots. not sure when that will happen, so it's marked as complete for now.
> 
> it's also kind of all over the place. hope it makes some sense. it's mostly me trying to get a feel of the characters.
> 
> alright that's all thanks for readin

**♧**

Several years after all this, at the edge of the known world, Frère Geraldus will kneel and kiss the trodden earth of a remote monastery. The roar of the waves against the cliffside will be subordinate only to the low drone of a Compline hymn; the air will be thick with _Salve Regina_ and salt.

As he raises his head toward the doorless entrance of the chapel, his eyes will lock with the young Benedictine monk standing just past the threshold, in the back of the choir rows, peering over one shoulder.

It will not be the monk’s ears that first draw Geraldus’ attention—petal-shaped and dusty white, flicking downwards when their gazes meet—nor the horns, sprouting from dark hair to curl around the sides of his head. 

It will be the lack of tonsuring that Geraldus notices first. A novice, he’ll realize. 

Then he’ll notice the ears. And the horns.

The novice will hold Geraldus’ gaze for a beat longer, mouth never once stumbling in _Salve Regina_. Then he’ll turn away, ears flicking once more.

 _A strange land_ , Geraldus will think, and rise to his feet.

**♧**

The Mute used to be a soldier.

When he looks at the beach that borders the western cliffs of the monastery, he can still see red running down the sand into the sea, splitting to fill grainy divots like veins, making white foam muddy, the silence of the aftermath worse than a scream.

The beach is clear, now, save for the writing. Diarmuid etches a cross into the sand, a circle like the sun woven behind it. Above it is Latin script, clearly crafted with a hand experienced moreso with an illuminating quill on paper than a stick on sand. The seaside wind picks up, ruffling Diarmuid’s curls; his ears flick.

“When I was a child,” Diarmuid begins, still digging his cross into the earth, “I used to wonder why the ocean never got tired of moving. I understand now, of course, that water isn’t alive. Still…”

He glances up, out at the waters, hand falling still. The Mute follows his gaze from where he’s sitting on the edge of the beach, where the sand meets a sparse layer of grass. The sun is halfway under the horizon line, making the sea glint like metal, spill red like blood.

Diarmuid turns to the Mute, now. The tip of his tail sweeps back and forth across the sand behind him when their eyes meet. “Looks like it’s being tucked into bed, doesn’t it?”

The Mute looks back at the horizon, trying to see it with different eyes.

He used to be a soldier.

Now…

**♧**

Diarmuid sprawls out in the tall grass, flattening it with splayed limbs. He’s smiling so wide his eyes are closed, his entire face scrunched up against high noon sun. In this lighting, contrasted against the green of the empty field, the Mute can count each freckle on his nose and under his eyes.

Like freckles, the field is dotted with wildflowers this time of year. Airy pinks and golden yellows, dusty blues and timid whites. Diarmuid has a handful of purple clover stems clutched in one hand, and once he’s done stretching, back arched and limbs taut, he settles in, inspects the clover, then takes one and bites the bud clean off.

The Mute has given up their search for wild onions, and sets down the basket of their findings on a large, flat rock a few feet away and takes a seat beside Diarmuid. Diarmuid turns to look up at him, folding one of his ears between the ground and his temple, velvety pink inside turned out. Every part of him looks soft, the Mute thinks, especially like this. Hidden away in a valley, nestled on the farthest cliffs of a distant island, leagues from bloody shores and battlefields and human greed.

Part of the Mute feels like an intruder. Most of him used to feel guilty. Now, too exhausted to feel that under the weight of the monks’ kindness and Diarmuid’s enthusiastic companionship, he’s settled for feeling privileged.

For many reasons, he has never met someone like Diarmuid before. He reaches out and takes hold of one charcoal-black, spiraling horn, and gives it a gentle tug. Diarmuid laughs—sounds like sunlight feels—and pushes at the Mute’s wrist. “I’ll get up, I’ll get up.”

Diarmuid is not a slothful creature, but he is easily distracted, and so fond of stopping to settle into a place—especially grassy hills, cool streams, patches of sunshine—and just exist. It’s a charming habit, and the Mute has never found it in himself to discourage it the way the brothers do.

He waits patiently as Diarmuid bites down on another clover, tugging when his teeth aren’t enough to separate it from the stem, corners of his nose scrunching in a mild indignation. He succeeds, after a short battle, and with a satisfied snort tosses the empty stem away. The Mute carefully takes hold of his ear and unfolds it. It flutters out of his grasp and against the side of his hand a few times, like butterfly wings.

Diarmuid turns, and the ear disappears again between his curls and the grass. He smiles up at him. A thin purple clover petal is trapped between two of his teeth. He takes one of the clovers from his bouquet and holds it up, close enough that the Mute can smell its pastoral sweetness.

“Would you like one?”

**♧**

The Mute used to be a soldier—and part of him, he thinks, always will be.

Most of the monks find it amusing how quickly Diarmuid takes to the Mute, though the Abbot and Brother Ciaran seem more relieved with how effortlessly the Mute takes their novice—and everything he is—in stride. Some of the brothers have a running joke of “lamb and shepherd.” 

They don’t need to know that when the Mute lay half-dead in the curragh, Diarmuid hovering over him, downy ears and dark horns, curls lit by the sun as though they were on fire, cherub mouth curling around a language he didn’t understand—like a saint speaking in tongues—he thought him to be the Lamb of God. They don’t need to know that this vision, even after his mind had cleared and he had spent the following weeks healing under the care of mortal men, had never quite left him. They don’t need to know that the Mute follows Diarmuid as much as Diarmuid follows the Mute.

The monks know so little of who he is. Only Brother Ciaran, who tended to his wounds, has seen the full extent of his scars, has seen the tattoo on his back and understood what it meant—that it was his cross to bear for all eternity. For reasons he cannot begin to understand, none of these marks are enough for Brother Ciaran to discourage his presence at the monastery, or his time spent with Diarmuid.

If the rest of the monks knew—would they still be so keen to allow him near such a precious secret?

“Brother Cathal told me today that the monastery used to host pilgrims who came to visit the relic.” 

Diarmuid stands at the leather tanning rack, scudding the surface of a hide, stretched thin across the rack, with a dull knife. His ears are angled asymmetrically—a sign he’s thinking very hard. The Mute, having a rare moment where there is no work for him to do, is overseeing the task. His eyes wander as he listens, out to the sea—he wonders if the novice’s sand art from a few days before is still there.

“But the monastery hasn’t had a single pilgrimage for as long as I can remember,” Diarmuid continues. “Does no one do them anymore, I wonder? Or are we too far away? It must be quite the journey to—are you listening to me?”

The rhythmic scratch of stone against hide stops. The Mute says nothing, makes a show of turning away and stepping out toward the cliffs—but he smiles, self-indulgent, even though he knows Diarmuid can’t see.

He hears the huff of indignation—of challenge—and the knife hitting the ground with a thud. 

Then he feels it—Diarmuid butts the crown of his head, the harmless curves of his horns, against the back of the Mute’s shoulder; then, as he turns, his upper arm. He reels back a few preparative steps, and the Mute can see the playful smile half-hidden beneath the tilt of his horns. 

When he goes in for the third strike, the Mute grabs him by both horns—Diarmuid yelps, laughs, tries instinctively to twist out of the hold. But the Mute’s grip is firm, and he’s startled by how the horns, always appearing so large and bulky against Diarmuid’s gentle curls and delicate features, fit easily into his palms, calloused fingers wrapping around them fully, with ease.

The thought, unbidden, surfaces—how easy Diarmuid would be to turn like this, flip onto the ground. How the Mute could climb on top of him before he would have the chance to react—how easy it would be to break his arm, snap his neck.

He’d be completely defenseless. 

He _is_ defenseless.

The image pushes the air from his lungs, and he stumbles back, letting go as though Diarmuid’s horns are hot metal. Diarmuid looks up, confused, and for one horrible, terrifying moment, their eyes meet.

And then The Mute doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, until he’s slamming the door of his hut behind him.

He paces, shaking. Every part of him feels raw.

He couldn’t—he would _never_ —

He sinks onto his bed. Scrubs a hand across his face—does it again. Scrubs his face with both hands. He’s sweating, suffocating. The image clings like thick cobweb, and he can’t shake it, can’t unsee—

Diarmuid is safe, he reminds himself. From him. From the world. From _his_ world.

He used to be a soldier. 

He still is.

Creatures like Diarmuid don’t need soldiers. They need something else.

They need—

**♧**

That night, there’s a knock at his door.

The Mute wonders, briefly, if it’s one of the monks, coming to finally tell him they were wrong—he’s a danger to the monastery and especially to Diarmuid, and it’s time for him to leave.

But it’s only Diarmuid.

“I know it’s late,” is the first thing he says. He stares up at the Mute as though he’s afraid he’ll shut the door in his face, and the Mute’s stomach sinks. 

He frightened him.

Diarmuid was never meant for that part of him, just like he isn’t meant to find forgiveness—not even the tiny slice that stands at his door. His time with Diarmuid was something he had stolen.

“I would have come earlier—” Diarmuid continues hurriedly, as though the words are all clamoring to be heard at once—then he glances behind him, through the darkness, back toward the sleeping quarters. His ears press flat to the sides of his head. “Brother Ciaran caught me sneaking out and sent me back to my cell. I had to try again.” 

The Mute gives no reaction. He’s certain it comes across as cold, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else but wait.

“I’m sorry, about this afternoon.” Diarmuid’s eyes are on his hands, worrying the hems of his robe sleeves. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The Mute’s hand buckles into a fist on the door frame, but he doesn’t let his eyes leave Diarmuid’s face—searching, clinging to the silence as much as he does the young monk’s words.

He starts to chew on the hem of his sleeve, gaze falling somewhere inside the hut, clearly distressed. Reflexively, the Mute reaches across the threshold and gently pulls it from his mouth by his wrist. Diarmuid startles slightly at the touch, blinking down at his sleeve. “I was doing it again, wasn’t I?”

He looks at the Mute, and the Mute nods—risks a small smile at one corner of his mouth. Diarmuid’s entire body seems to relax; his hand drops to his sides.

“You don’t seem upset anymore,” he tries, like testing the temperature of water. The Mute shakes his head, and Diarmuid smiles, too, angling it shyly downward. “I was worried about you.”

The Mute swallows the sudden urge to clear his throat, and shifts on his feet. Rubs at his chin through his beard.

“I don’t know why I do it,” Diarmuid says—he’s still toying with his sleeves and very focused on it, but he doesn’t try to put them in his mouth again. “I mean—the brothers think it’s because of _this_.” He motions to one of his ears, and it flicks in response. “It just feels right in the moment, you know? But I’m sorry if it’s—” and he grimaces, as though the next word carries its own type of weight; “—bothersome.”

The Mute shakes his head again, ardently, expression stern. Diarmuid looks up at him through his lashes, tentative. “Are you sure?”

He hates this—Diarmuid anxious and unsure. Ears angled down and eyes so incredibly _sad_. 

So to prove it to Diarmuid—and to himself—he reaches out and gives him a light push against one horn.

Diarmuid stumbles back—at first his eyes are wide, somewhat stricken, and for a heart-stopping moment the Mute wonders if the touch was too harsh. For all of Diarmuid’s playful attempts at roughhousing, the Mute had never done much in response.

But then, after regaining his balance, Diarmuid—smiles, wide. And he laughs. Even in the moonlight, the Mute can see the way his face lights up, bubbling and joyful, eyes crescenting and glittering, soft cheeks and an even softer sound.

Then, Diarmuid slams his head against the Mute’s.

Pain explodes across his forehead, and it’s his turn to stumble back, one hand flying to his forehead, the other wildly seeking purchase on the door frame. Diarmuid shouts something in Irish that he belatedly recognizes as a curse—then, “Oh no! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—!”

He follows the Mute into the hut as he continues to stagger back; when he finally stops he’s leaning against his workbench and Diarmuid is hovering in front of him.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he says frantically. “Let me see.”

He pries the Mute’s hand from his face with both hands. When his vision clears, the Mute finds Diarmuid wide-eyed again, scanning him over and over. He doesn’t let go of the Mute’s arm.

“Do you feel dizzy?” Diarmuid, for his part, looks completely unaffected by the blow. The Mute shakes his head and turns, overwhelmed by the sudden attention and proximity. He makes to move away; Diarmuid lets him, and he lowers himself into one of two chairs by the fireplace. There’s several beats of silence, where Diarmuid hovers and the Mute massages the space between his eyes.

Then, Diarmuid asks, “Even things like that aren’t a bother?”

The Mute huffs out a laugh, shakes his head even as he continues to knead at it. He hears Diarmuid laugh as well, small and breathless.

“I felt so relieved you weren’t angry with me, and I was thinking of how good a friend you are to be so patient with me, and there was this burst of energy and I just—”

Diarmuid cuts off with another laugh, and when the Mute glances over he looks a little embarrassed, but also greatly amused, as though the whole thing is rather ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, once his laughter dies down. “I hope it doesn’t bruise. And—you _are_ a good friend. The best I’ve ever had.”

The Mute wants to ask about Brother Ciaran—because surely he can’t compare to Brother _Ciaran_ —but he can’t think of a way to do it, so he settles for smiling softly. Diarmuid walks closer to the fireplace. The fire is little more than glowing embers sunken into ash, but it’s enough to send lowlight dancing across the side of Diarmuid’s face, the swell of his cheekbone and one horn.

“It does make me happy when I can act like this around you.” His voice is quieter now, thoughtful, and the Mute marvels at how honest he is—that in spite of his disastrous reaction earlier in the day, Diarmuid is still so quick to trust him. It’s a rare sort of trust, the Mute thinks—the kind that’s never been broken by anyone.

“Maybe not— _that_ ,” Diarmuid continues, tilting his head back toward the door—the scene of the crime; “But I still want to—well, here.”

In two easy steps, he’s standing in front of the Mute at the fireplace, a hair’s breadth apart. The Mute looks up, hand falling from his face to rest on his knee. Then Diarmuid leans down—cups the Mute’s face in slender hands—and presses their foreheads together.

For the second time that day, the air is pushed from the Mute’s lungs.

“Something more like this,” Diarmuid whispers. His eyes are half-closed, glittering in the firelight. In response, the Mute lifts both hands—trembling—and rests them in the curves of Diarmuid’s horns.

He used to be a soldier.

Now—

They stay like that, under the glow of the embers, soft and warm and safe.

**♧**


End file.
